And Time Again
by sheba6086
Summary: Why did Eric allow his relationship with Sookie to develop at her pace, rather than simply take what he wanted? He could have. Was he looking to the future ... or bound by the past? This story takes place during Eric and Sookie's first meeting and will be a total of 4 chapters. As always, I thank Charlaine Harris for generously allowing others to play with her characters.
1. Chapter 1

**And Time Again**

_**My eternal appreciation and gratitude to NorthmanMaille, without whom I would be lost. Her beta work and research assistance were invaluable in the writing of this story.**_

Chapter 1

.

Eric and Pam sat, as was their custom, barely acknowledging the presence of anyone else, human or vampire. Over the centuries that passed since her making, their relationship had woven its way through many phases. From the intense flames of sexual passion to the glistening embers of the realization hot sex wasn't enough to sustain an enduring relationship. Through years of separation and now the comfort and stability of a business partnership between two creatures so familiar they know one another as well as they know themselves.

Much as any other night, Fangtasia was a roiling ocean of sameness. Behind the darkly made-up eyes and fake fangs the humans were indistinguishable. Beneath the shadow colored attire they felt gave them an air of mystery and intrigue, they were all soaked in too much sweat from drinking and dancing; drenched in too much cologne from overzealous reapplications designed to garner the notice of the vampires keen sense of smell.

Despite their naïve beliefs in their ability to become experts in all things vampire by way of a simple Google search, they knew nothing. They only needed one thing to attract a vampire and the monotonous truth was, they all had it … a heartbeat. Everything above and beyond their pulse amounted to little more than an advertisement of the stupidity of them being here, hardly a ringing endorsement.

The Great Revelation was supposed to be freeing for vampires, but he didn't feel free. He'd spent a millennium keeping his true nature hidden; moving on when suspicions were aroused or even hinted at, but now he felt more caged than ever.

Eric glanced around the room with open contempt.

"These are the ones you read about in that newspaper you're so fond of. The ones who visit the zoo, lean too far into the lion's den and end up being mauled."

"Oh, I love those stories!" Pam exclaimed, her smile backing up her words. "I especially like the ones on TV, where they live to tell about it. The surprise on their faces when they say how shocked they were to discover the lions weren't tamed is always priceless."

"Priceless," Eric repeated dismally. He had no real interest in discussing lion maulings.

Something at the bar caught his eye. A woman. Not really the woman herself, more the way she moved. The motion of her arm as she reached to take something from her handbag. Deep in his mind, a memory stirred. It came bubbling up close to the surface, but couldn't quite break through.

Her back was to him, so he couldn't see her face but he could see she was standing with Bill Compton. Compton was guarding her closely, following her every move; keeping watch over everyone within striking distance of her. Whatever it was she took from her bag she showed to the bartender, Longshadow.

Eric focused more intently on the human woman with Compton. She was showing Longshadow pictures. She must be looking for someone. Well, it certainly wasn't the first time a human had come into Fangtasia armed with photos of missing relatives. No doubt Longshadow was giving the usual useless answers and he didn't let them get away without getting a drink order. Good man, Longshadow. He always had the bottom line in mind.

Compton led the woman to a nearby table and seated her, positioning her in such a way Eric's view of her remained partially obstructed. Bill knew they'd been noticed.

Eric felt a pulse of anger flash through him. If Bill Compton thought he could come into Fangtasia and openly insult the Area Sheriff by flaunting his new toy without so much as the courtesy of an introduction, he was badly mistaken. Eric was on the verge of sending Pam to escort them over when Bill realized his error. He looked up and met Eric's eye.

Eric raised his hand and beckoned by nonchalantly crooking his finger.

Bill took the woman by the arm and nudged her from her chair so he could guide her to the table where Eric and Pam were seated. Confrontation averted.

Eric calmed instantly and was almost fully relaxed again when the woman looked nervously in his direction. Their eyes met for only a moment, and she casually tossed her hair. It was then he recognized her. _It was her, wasn't it? It couldn't be. Was it? It had to be._ It was as if the fabric of time folded back on its self, plucking her from an obscure recess in his memory to deliver her to him … again.

XXXXXXX

Having bored of the constant economic turmoil and political conflict with Denmark plaguing his homeland, he had once again traversed the North Sea. Landing in London only six months ago, he quickly found himself easily accepted and quite at home among those on the outskirts of the British aristocracy.

After years of war and uncertainty, King Henry VII only recently secured the future of his royal house with the marriage of his eldest son, HRH Arthur, Prince of Wales, to the daughter of the King of Spain, Catalina (now to be called Catherine) of Aragon. The country was breathing a collective sigh of relief and riding a wave of welcome peace.

These last two months Eric had been finding both amusement and pleasure on the arm and in the bed of Lady Francesca Whitcomb, the socially in demand young wife of an often-abroad diplomat in the service of the King. Owing to Francesca's popularity and highborn connections, Eric found himself on his present course: traveling to Ludlow Castle as a member of a large party visiting Prince Arthur and his new Spanish bride.

Despite being 30 years her junior, Francesca had endeared herself to the Baroness Joan Strange, friend to Lady Margaret Beaufort, who was in turn, mother of the King. As it happened, Baroness Strange and Lady Beaufort were also married to brothers, which strengthened their social connection and positions.

Lady Beaufort was traveling to visit her grandson the Prince. Her sister-in-law Baroness Strange accompanied her. For her amusement, the Baroness brought with her the delightful Lady Whitcomb, and of course Lady Whitcomb could not bear to be parted from her current lover, Eric Norseman. Into this spring of promise and celebration he rode, a stunning picture of perfection upon his grey stallion, like the proverbial calm before the storm.

So it was, on this cool March evening, Eric rode alongside Lady Whitcomb's carriage. Having passed through the town of Ludlow, they were within sight of the castle and Francesca was busying herself with her mirror. As a member of Lady Beaufort's extended party, making a good presentation of ones self was of paramount importance. One must appear refreshed and as agreeably attractive as possible at all times; even if one has been traveling quite uncomfortably for hours without rest.

With her maid maintaining a single candle as steadily as possible, Francesca, holding her mirror in one hand and a powder puff in the other, smiled out at Eric. Her delighted laughter rang sweetly through the carriage window when he returned her gesture with a smile and slight nod. Human women were so easily pleased, particularly in the upper classes. So much of their lives were filled with frivolity, providing them with small diversions required little if any effort.

He was so distracted by watching Francesca flirt with him; he paid no attention to the girl walking alone on the road just ahead. He was as surprised as everyone else when the carriage hit a mud-filled hole causing it to bounce. The girl walking beside the road screamed as she was splashed with water and mud. Inside the carriage the maid dropped the candleholder, resulting in a panicked scramble to douse the small flame before it could ignite Lady Whitcomb's lace underskirts.

Eric was off his horse in an instant, flinging the carriage door open to see to Francesca's well being; or at least to give her the impression he was concerned for her. "Close the door before I catch a chill!" Francesca shouted, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended.

He felt his expression harden and he recoiled from her, quickly closing the door lest she notice the change in his demeanor. He stood in the road and watched as the carriage moved on its way without his accompaniment.

As he reached to gather his horse's reins, he caught the soft sounds of a female weeping. Francesca's words echoed I his ears. "… before I catch a chill." Though it was not raining now, it had rained most of the afternoon today. He recalled Francesca's maid prattling on about it earlier. Everything was quite wet and the temperature was cool. With the light breeze it would have to be terribly uncomfortable for humans to be outdoors. Yet there was that girl, alone beside the road in the damp spring twilight, soaked through with mud and crying.

_How unfortunate for her, that the last evening prior to her death should be so dreary_, he thought without emotion … and then it happened. She moved. It was a perfectly ordinary movement. It required no particular exertion or skill. There was no justifiable reason for him to have noticed it … and yet.

She simply reached into the deep pocket of her threadbare cloak to draw out a handkerchief. It was enough to save her life. Something about the way her arm moved held him in his place, transfixed by the manner her fingers curled gently around the scrap of cloth in her hand.

She was about to raise the handkerchief to wipe her face when she noticed him standing there, staring at her. Her apprehension was immediately evident in the way she darted her eyes. With the carriage getting further away by the second, they were quite alone on the road. She dutifully lowered her gaze, but she did not back away.

"My apologies for the mud, Miss." He continued his approach until he was within a few feet of her, stopping when he noticed how she had stiffened. Clearly she was expecting no good to come of their meeting.

She voiced no response, only pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

He could feel her pulse pounding, its volume increasing by leaps and bounds with each passing second. He could almost taste her blood without even having touched her. In any other circumstance he would have already taken the opportunity to strike, yet he did not. He merely stared, as if he was waiting for her to suddenly turn and fly away.

Without benefit of the body heat generated by walking, she began to shiver and the movement was quickly accompanied by what sounded oddly like someone playing castanets. Her teeth were chattering, he realised.

"You are cold," Eric stated, grabbing the clasp holding the cape he had slung carelessly over his right shoulder. He closed the remaining distance between them in a single, long stride and draped the garment around her neck before retreating to his previously held position.

"Thank you, milord," she replied.

Her voice was barely above a whisper and she still did not make eye contact, though the thunderous beating of her heart began to slow as her initial panic receded.

"I am pleased to hear you are not mute. Are you injured?"

"No, milord."

"You mistake me. I am no lord."

"Sorry, mi-, umm." Frustrated by uncertainty over how to address him properly she looked up, only to see him returning to his horse. She drew in a breath in preparation to speak, but decided against it. Lord or no, it was not her place to delay him leaving.

But he didn't leave. He gathered the reins and retraced his steps back to her, leading the massive animal at his side. "You were saying?"

"You're not wearing livery and I don't see any badges on you. That's a fine horse you're riding. Fit for a lord. I didn't know what to call you."

"You have a lot to say when you find your tongue," Eric said.

There was mirth in his tone, but it didn't reach his eyes; the light of the clear night sky showed the woman only aloof bemusement in their icy blue depths. Gazing up at him, a sudden sense of foreboding sent a shiver through her. _Or was it the wind? _As she forced herself to look away, she wondered why she was still standing here.

"With your leave, I'll be on my way again," she said hurriedly as she fumbled to unwrap his cape from around her.

He reached down and readjusted it on her shoulders. "The night has not lost its chill," he said. "Where is your destination?"

"There." A hand flitted out from under the cape and pointed in the direction of Ludlow Castle. "The kitchens." Even in this light, she saw the distaste register on his face.

"As a rule, kitchens hold little attraction for me. I find my proclivities tend to be better indulged in other rooms."

She looked away and again reached for the cloak clasp.

"Must I bind your hands to prevent you from further exposing yourself to the wind and rain? We're off to the kitchens of Ludlow Castle, where I will doubtless be drawn to visit again during my stay."

She wondered if he could see the change as she felt herself flush and an involuntary smile planted itself on her downturned face.

"Up you go," he ordered. Allowing her no chance to protest, he slipped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the horse. He performed the task with amazing speed and precision, and no more exertion placing her gently in the saddle than if he'd merely tossed the reins across the pommelet.

She opened her mouth, but couldn't decide if she did so in order to thank him again or to scream and try to resist his actions. She found herself unable to do either, thus rendering her temporarily slack jawed and at a loss, not only for words, but coherent thought as well.

Eric wasted no time in joining her atop the destrier, his ease of movement demonstrating an effortless grace she'd never witnessed outside stolen peeks at dancing castle guests.

The feel of the reins being gathered into Eric's confident grasp was all the command his mount required. Holding his head proudly aloft, without the necessity of a check rein, the horse set off at a slow trot; his master's current pace of choice.

Eric puzzled the mystery of why he'd taken on a travel companion rather than a meal. She was pretty to be sure, but certainly nothing to compare to the pampered beauty or aristocratic social standing of his current lover, Lady Francesca Whitcomb.

She fit well in front of him. In fact, she was so perfectly ensconced Eric caught himself actually looking down to verify she remained. She occupied the space between his torso and his hands as if his tailor had measured her for precisely this purpose. His arms encircled her easily, allowing him ample room to offer guidance to the horse without having to squeeze her or make contact that could be perceived as unwelcomed advances from a stranger.

He wasn't sure why her perception of him should be of any note or consequence, but it was.

Still gazing down at the top of her head, he noticed how even from this angle, she had the appearance of a well-balanced portrait, her small shoulders leaning ever so slightly against the broad frame of his chest. For the briefest of moments he was tempted to touch her face and ease her head back until it rested upon his shoulder. He resisted, but the thought of it brought an unexpected smile to his lips.

"I am called Eric Norseman," he said with no fanfare or attempt to make the name sound of any import. "I hold no titles, but among my own, my rank would be on par with your knights. I am therefore commonly afforded such addresses as befit a knight. You may refer to me as Sir Eric, if you find Eric alone to be unsuitably familiar.

"Or Master Norseman," she offered in a soft voice.

"Never," he snapped, more severely than was his intention.

The swift fervour of his response frightened her, causing her to flinch with such violence she might have been unhorsed had she not been so snugly situated. She recovered almost immediately, her body tensing as if girding herself in preparation of being struck. She lowered her chin until she was facing the pommelet of the saddle.

She was clearly accustomed to brutal treatment at the hands of the men of her acquaintance. Had he followed his original intentions, his actions would not have surprised her. He would have merely been the last.

A long dormant sensation surged to the forefront of his thoughts, rushing in torrents through his entire body, growing in intensity as it went.

His failure to recognise the feeling was startling, but not nearly so much as the eventual realisation of what it was. Something he thought he'd left behind with all the other trappings of his human life hadn't been left at all. It had gone fallow, only to reawaken now, well rested and eager to be unleashed. He wanted to protect her.

"I meant no offence, mi-, uh, Sir Eric." She was trying to hide it, but a slight quaver had crept into her voice.

The very thing she was trying to disguise fell on Eric's ears most pleasantly, like a harp well played. "You have not offended," he replied. His tone took on a gentleness he almost didn't recognise as his own. In five hundred plus years, he had been accused of being many things; _gentle_ was rarely among them. "And what shall I call you? What is your name?"

With her head still bowed she said, "Oh, you won't have to bother about calling me anything, Sir Eric. I don't expect you'll ever see me again. We don't get visitors in the sculleries."

"I can't imagine the young Prince refusing an accommodation to a guest by denying access to his scullery," Eric said with a hearty chuckle. "His new bride doesn't make her bedchamber there, surely?"

"No, Sir!" she gasped, her shock at his remark momentarily overriding her fear. Her body twisted, allowing her to finally be face to face with him. "Do they keep future Queens among the pots and servants where you come from?"

"Certainly not," he answered into eyes so blue he could register naught but their color for several seconds. "Of course, neither are we in the habit of keeping faces such as yours among our platters and parsnips."

As her cheeks flushed pink in the moonlight he heard a quickening of her heart. He smiled and she turned away from him again.

"Your name," he insisted.

"Susannah." After a short silence between them, she added, "They call me Sue."

"Sue," he echoed, as if he was curious to see if it sounded different being spoken by his lips.

It sounded different to her. Somehow that one simple syllable she'd heard dozens of times a day, every day since her birth, took on a noble, almost regal air when he said it. She closed her eyes and secretly hoped he would say it again, but he didn't.

"No," he said after an apparent inner debate. "Your name is Susannah. I shall address you thus."

The main gate of Ludlow Castle loomed before them. They had arrived.

She was surprised when Eric directed his horse past the stable and to the rear of the castle. It was a simple task to follow the smells to their destination. When they reached the wide kitchen doors, he quickly dismounted and before she knew it, his hands were around her waist.

He lifted her from the saddle and placed her gently on the ground in a single fluid movement.

"Thank you, Sir Eric," she said softly, without looking upward to make eye contact.

"I shall see you again, my Lady Susannah of the scullery."

She felt heat rising to her cheeks again. She gave a quick shallow curtsey and cast his cape across the saddle before scurrying around the horse and through the partially open kitchen door.

XXXXXXX

It was the early spring of 1502, but winter's chill had not yet fully loosened its grip. Eric had tarried in Britain longer than he deemed wise. A fact he could only account for by attributing it to the diverting social escapades of his human lover.

Lady Francesca maintained a wide circle of acquaintances and she was easily bored, so she flitted among them like a butterfly drinking from a flower, then rather than simply moving on to the next flower, she moved on to an entirely different field. With the exception of her personal maid, the only constant in her immediate surroundings for the last two months had been Eric.

A well-connected and popular beauty, she made for a more than pleasant affair, affording him an ever changing and extensive selection of prey. The added convenience of his lover's husband being occupied by lengthy times abroad in service of the king made Lady Francesca an ideal mistress.

As had become her habit, upon arrival Francesca arranged with the servants for her paramour to be installed in a room adjoining hers by way of a concealed door. Such discreet arrangements were always made with staff rather than her host or hostess. '_Servants gossip_,' she pointed out to him, '_but only amongst themselves_.'

Of course her logic was tenuous, if not outright foolhardy, but rather than noting the flaws in her reasoning; not the least of which was the fact her own maid was her most reliable and prolific source of gossip, he merely smiled and complimented her cleverness.

In much the same manner as his destrier was handed over to a groom, Eric himself was taken to the grand entrance of the castle proper, where he was transferred into the care of a footman. Subsequently, he was shown to a comfortable room appropriately appointed for a guest of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.

Eric instructed the servant he was not to be roused upon the morrow. He also told the man he would not require the services of a dresser for the duration of his stay. He preferred to see to his own personal needs.

"As you say, Sir," the man said with a quick nod before taking a backward step toward the door.

Eric gave a dismissive wave and the man didn't wait for any further encouragement. He turned and disappeared into the hallway, pushing the door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

Once alone, Eric had a look around to familiarise himself with his new, _and temporary_, surroundings. An enormous carved, four-poster bed draped in red and gold brocade was centered on one wall. Opposite was the dressing area, complete with a table for a washbasin and toiletries, various hooks on the wall for hanging garments and a tall modesty screen for occasions when one had guests in the room whilst dressing. In the wall behind the screen was a niche large enough for a single occupant. On the floor of the niche sat a chamber pot.

The sight of the pot made Eric chuckle to himself. For a moment he wondered if he should glamour someone into using it so the maids would not think it odd when it went unused. He decided against it. The pot wouldn't be the only thing in the room the maids wouldn't need to bother with during his stay.

His lone trunk was sitting against the wall beneath the series of hooks. No doubt Francesca personally supervised its placement, so by morning no member of the household staff would be surprised to learn his bed remained unrumpled. Efficiently done. Francesca prided herself on her efficiency. No wasted effort. Every movement, every word was backed by purpose.

_She would be a spectacularly lethal vampire_, Eric thought. Though he felt no temptation to make her so. Increases in the number of his kind were often difficult to conceal from the human populace. Even one additional hunter becomes evident when they stalk a common, sparse herd of prey. Perhaps if his intentions were to dally in a more crowded area, maybe London or Saint Petersburg, he might consider it, but not here. This was no place to nurse and nourish a newly made vampire. She would be more obvious than a lioness set free among the chickens.

As ever, thoughts of freedom drew his eyes to the window. The room boasted an oversized western facing window; again courtesy of a specific request from Francesca. Her attentiveness to detail, coupled with her desire for excessive personal comfort, resulted in the last two months being among the most pampered of Eric's long life, either living or undead.

He regarded the ornately carved, heavy wooden shutters. Mounted inside with thick steel hinges and banding for added fortification and constructed from a richly decorated dark wood to make it easier on the eye, it was entirely possible these shutters would keep even the caustic rays of the sun at bay, but that was a gamble he was not prepared to take. He would go to ground somewhere nearby, shortly before dawn.

With nothing more than a flick of his wrist the shutters swung open, revealing a balcony too small to accommodate more than one. He stepped out to examine his view. His room was situated on the second floor. Directly across the courtyard from where he stood was the stable where he left his horse.

Though the walls were thick, he knew Francesca was in the room to his left. He could hear her happy chatter as she gave her maid directions for completing the unpacking after she was properly dressed and gone to be presented to Prince Albert and Princess Catherine.

He looked off to his right and for just an instant he felt what could only be described as a pang of disappointment at not finding Susannah standing in the castle shadows staring back at him.

Around the far corner of this wall was the kitchen door where he'd delivered her, still cold and wet. Beyond or perhaps below the kitchen would be the sculleries where she toiled scrubbing pots or preparing vegetables for the cooks.

Annoyed by the unbidden thoughts of this inconsequential girl intruding upon his time, Eric stepped back into the room, which would serve as nothing more than a place to house his clothes for the length of his stay here.

On either side of the bed centered on the southern wall, hung large tapestries depicting hunting scenes. As expected, the one furthest from the main entry concealed a door, which on its opposite side was behind a similar tapestry in Francesca's room.

Eric pulled the tapestry aside and swept through the doorway, banishing all thoughts of unfortunate soggy servant girls as he went.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"I live, as ever, in anticipation of our next meeting, My Lady."

Eric's eyes remained locked on Francesca's as he raised her hand in his, bowing low to meet it and brush his lips softly across her lavender scented knuckles.

"Ladies," he added, with a nod and a quick glance around the gaggle of pretty young courtiers vying for the favour of the lady who so clearly held the heart of this exotic and handsome Nordic knight in her delicate ivory hands. It was mightily rumored his bed was never slept in because he spent his nights ravishing Lady Francesca. These nightly liaisons were said to account for her seemingly endless supply of laughter and happy smiles.

The rumors also offered a convenient excuse for Sir Eric's excessive need for rest during daylight hours. A man so singularly dedicated to the amorous demands of a woman as beautiful and apparently insatiable as Lady Francesca, was to be admired and respected for his romantic pursuits. All may well be consumed by curiosity about the reality of their trysts, but no one would dare ask. Conventions of propriety would never permit it.

As he turned to take his leave of them, his lips curled into what would be interpreted by the young ladies surrounding Francesca as a sly grin promising a clandestine meeting where all their passionate predilections would be indulged and sated. The more worldly and experienced matrons would sense something more dangerous about his placid countenance. The feeling might set them on edge, but they would not act or speak out. If there was one thing humans frivolously relied upon, often to their ruin, it was their ridiculous belief in their own power.

Misplaced confidence was just as prevalent today as it had been when a beating human heart lay beneath Eric's breast. A woman might feel well loved and therefore well protected by the man who loves her. This same love struck man may in turn feel the obligation or even the desire to provide her with protection. All these feelings amounted to nothing in the face of true threats.

Feeling invincible and being invincible were very different things. He learned the difference five hundred years ago at the hands of Appius Livius Ocella. In the years since, Eric taught the lesson many times, his students ultimately paying for his tutelage with their lives.

On this night, as every other since arriving at Ludlow, Eric joined a group of young men who gathered nightly in the billiards room for drinking as well as conversation and sport deemed inappropriate to be had in the presence of proper ladies of the Prince's court.

As had become his habit, Eric poured a bit of brandy wine into a pewter goblet and held it in his hand throughout the evening. Occasionally he would bring it to his lips and tilt it up as if to drink, but the liquid rarely even reached his teeth. The simple ruse worked because the others were far too busy seeing to their own state of drunkenness to worry about his.

Thus he passed his time in relative anonymity, eventually drifting through the open outer door and into a small pathway garden. The garden wasn't as pretty as the ones frequented by the ladies and the entirety of the path could be walked at a leisurely pace in ten minutes. It offered nothing of note, but it made for a pleasant enough place for informal discussions of business or for bestowing confidences.

Eric stood near the point furthest from the billiards room. He held his goblet and stared back toward the Northwest corner of the castle. The wide wooden door leading into the kitchens stood fully open tonight and he could hear occasional shouting coming from within.

Supper was over hours ago, but lulls between meals and activities for the Prince and his courtiers did not result in comparable leisure times in the kitchens. For all but a few hours of each twenty-four, the kitchens were teeming with activity.

There were pots and plates to be scrubbed and readied for reuse tomorrow. Grains, spices and other ingredients had to be measured and brought up from the storage cellars in preparation for the morning baking.

In addition to all this, heavy haunches of pork and venison were being thinly sliced and arranged on platters alongside puddings and peeled fruit that had been cut into pieces appropriate for hand feeding one's lover. At any moment the nightly parade would begin. A human stream of ladies maids, squires and pages would converge in the kitchens, sent to fetch trays of sweets and savories to tempt the late night appetites of courtiers throughout the castle.

Eric perked when he thought he heard the name _Susannah_ spoken amongst the cacophony of servant's voices. He would not have confessed, even to himself, but it was a sound he'd been hoping to hear these last several days.

A sudden high-pitched gale of laughter from the billiards room brought a dark scowl to his face. The men were now drunk enough to disregard the risks of gossip and discovery. They openly embarked on missions to elicit sexual favours from the serving girls with promises of money or trinkets. An unwelcome mental image of Susannah being propositioned in such a manner goaded him to action he'd thus far resisted.

He covered the distance to the kitchen in an instant. Before his dropped goblet spilled the last of its contents in the grass, Eric was standing in the corner doorway with dozens of wondering eyes upon him.

A quick survey of the room established the face he sought was not among the ones staring silently at him now.

As Susannah had said, a visitor other than servants in the kitchens and sculleries was uncommon. As he was aware, these rare occasions were more often than not, unhappy affairs for the cooks and their staff. It seemed a nuisance to have to do it, but he could see his goal would be better served by putting their minds at ease, and glamouring was not a viable option with so many humans who had so many doors at their disposal.

"My Lady removed a ring during supper this evening," he announced, taking a confident stride into the kitchen. He now commanded everyone's undivided attention. From their expressions it was clear they all expected the next words from his mouth to be an accusation of theft.

Good. Their fear worked in his favour. They would all be anxious to accommodate any request he made and deflect any attention away from themselves. Even an unfounded accusation against a servant in a royal household could mean imprisonment or even death.

Eric offered the collective his most charming smile as he continued. "She believes she may have left it upon her plate and I have taken up the quest to recover it and restore it to her finger."

A man of at least fifty and nearly as rotund as he was tall, found his tongue and took two bold steps toward Eric. "Ted Willards at your service, Noble Sir. Everything comes through the Prince's kitchens, comes through me. On my word, I've seen no ladies ring tonight and you'll not find a more honest lot anywhere in England than right here under this roof. I'd put my life on it."

"Would you indeed?" Eric responded as he made another sweeping glance around the room. When he spoke, he did so slowly; each word dripping from his lips like chilled honey. "How very inspiring it must be to work among such paragons of virtue. It goes far toward explaining my brief feeling of having accidentally stumbled into a monastery upon my entry herein."

There were a number of muffled laughs, though not from Ted Willards. It was more than the final embers from the oven fires causing tiny beads of sweat to form across Ted's brow and down his spine. There was something unusually dangerous about the tall, pale man standing in his kitchen. Something more than the Norse accent set Ted's instincts tingling. He had a sudden urge to flee, but there was nowhere to go. The blond man stood between him and the only outside exit.

"Look about as you like," Ted managed, his voice having lost its confident tone. He stepped aside and took an immediate interest in a previously ignored pile of spoons at the end of a table.

"You are too kind," Eric answered absently. He'd already forgotten Ted Willards. His attention had shifted to a closed door on the opposite side of the room. People backed from his path as he walked. "To the cellars, I presume?" he asked of no one and everyone. He nodded at the door as he continued toward it.

"And the sculleries, milord."

He followed the sound to a girl of perhaps twenty with mouse brown hair and an extra heartbeat in her belly. She was rail thin and for half an instant he wondered if she knew yet she wasn't alone in her skin. It wasn't important. Not her baby or whether she addressed him as a lord or a knight. The only important thing in this kitchen, or this entire castle for that matter, was on the other side of the door in front of him.

"The sculleries, of course," he said, making eye contact with the girl. "Where the plates are taken to be cleaned, excellent suggestion. I shall investigate forthwith." He gave the girl a broad smile and nod all her own before opening the door and stepping through.

He'd barely even closed the door behind him when he caught her scent. Unmistakable. Susannah was here. He could have easily followed with his eyes closed, but he withstood any temptation he may have felt to attempt it. Instead, he allowed himself to be led down a sloping hall. He didn't need to crouch, but there were places where he could feel his hair brushing against the ceiling. He passed by several pantries with different duties being tended to in each.

The hall continued on its downward incline and after a bit it turned sharply and doubled back in the direction of the kitchen. No more than ten paces after the turn, he found her. She stood with her back to the door. Large baskets of vegetables lined the walls and filled the space beneath the large table in the center of the room.

"If you're bringing the rosemary, you've not brought enough or I'd smell it. So, you're either in the wrong place, or you'll have to go back for more."

She didn't turn round right away and Eric was glad for it. This was her true voice. This was how she sounded when she was completely at ease and in her element. It was higher pitched than he remembered, stronger as well. She wasn't shivering from the cold and wet, or intimidated by a stranger in the dark, at least not yet.

"Go on then. No point in just standing about. I'll be needing that rosemary soon as I have these turnips peeled and sliced."

She turned now. Eric remained silent as she wiped her hands on the front of her skirt. She still hadn't looked up. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Why are you still…"

She gasped as her words hung in her throat. She rocked backward a step and grabbed the table behind her with both hands. "…here?" She finished in a whisper.

"I've only just arrived to this spot," he said. He did not move further into the room, but his eyes were fixed on hers, searching for signs of encouragement rather than fear. "If you require rosemary, it would be my honor-"

"NO!" She thrust out a hand as if she might try and physically prevent him leaving. She even took a step toward him, but she stopped short. She heaved a deep breath and concentrated her efforts on maintaining a composed tone.

"Begging your pardon, Sir Eric. An errand boy was sent for the rosemary. He should be here by now. I mistook you for him." She lowered her eyes.

"You remember my name," he said, ducking his head and stepping through the doorless entry to the room.

"I wouldn't want to be thought rude," she replied, raising her eyes to meet his again. "Surely I should remember, for at least a fortnight, the name of the man who rescued me from the cold and damp. Wouldn't you agree?"

She crossed her arms in front of her, raised an eyebrow and stared. Not exactly the reception he expected. Though to be fair, until he was actually at the kitchen door, he hadn't expected to even be in this section of the castle.

"So, your intention is to forget me at the conclusion of a fortnight? I suppose that could be seen as fair. And what of the time between now and then?"

Her breathing and heartbeat quickened perceptibly. Her arms uncrossed, one hand hugging tightly against her side, the other traveling up to her neck and fidgeting with her collar as if to verify it remained fastened. When she spoke, her voice was very small, with an ever so slight tremor.

"I am grateful for your kind help on the road, Sir Eric, truly. I don't know what you expect in return for your kindness, but I beg you would notice I am not among the girls who come to serve brandy and ale in the billiards room after supper." A gulped breath punctuated the end of her speech.

Eric was so utterly taken aback he found himself unable to speak for several seconds. As his mind raced furiously, he fought his initial instinct to explode with outrage.

Some unknown something about her had compelled him into the bowels of Ludlow Castle to seek her out, and she believed he was here to take her against her will. The forced stillness in her tone was one he'd heard many times before. It was resignation. She could see his size and feel his power. If it was his intention to have her, she knew she would be powerless against him.

He held his indignation at bay. In all fairness, she was not thinking him capable of crimes he'd not actually committed before, albeit not with her. When he found his voice, it was not fraught with anger at her suspicions. It was soft and low, almost as if he was apologising for her misunderstanding his intentions. He wasn't certain exactly what his intentions were, but they were not what she believed them to be.

"My expectations are my own, Susannah. They pose no threat to you." He smiled and gestured toward the table behind her. "If my eyes do not deceive, it is turnips, not billiard balls on your table. I have not mistaken your location. Likewise, your favours are yours to bestow, or not. I give you my assurance, I shall take nothing from you which you have not offered freely."

She visibly relaxed and her eyes misted over just enough to make them appear almost out of focus in the harsh candlelight. Her gratitude and relief formed her lovely mouth into a smile so sweet; if he had a beating heart he could well imagine it breaking. He was doomed. How would he ever be able to make himself leave this place?

XXXXXXX

For the first time in centuries the sun was coming too soon. The slight twinges in the pit of his stomach informed him but a single hour would pass before the dawn. He glanced downward. A hand drifted to his abdomen and settled there as if the touch would stave off the inevitable.

"Are you ill?" Susannah asked. Her voice filtered through to him as if coming from a dream, soft and gentle, filled with genuine concern.

He almost reached out and took her hand, but no. He remembered his vow. He would take nothing she did not offer. Her words may have reached his ears sounding like sweet melodies, but they made no offers upon arrival.

"I am well," he answered, unable to mask the disappointment in his tone. The hand formerly cradling his midsection slipped to his side as if offering evidence of his state of good health.

"You're hungry, of course," she said. Having reached what she believed a satisfactory diagnosis, she embarked upon seeing to a cure. "You've been standing down here for hours without rest or refreshment and it must be near morning by now."

As if her words had bid it come, a ravenous hunger tore through him leaving a scorching emptiness in its wake. The thirst was overwhelming. He would have to tend to it before going to ground for the day, or he would rise with little more than his most base instincts in tact.

A vampire who denied his needs until he reached such a state was the very personification of danger, as much to himself as to all the humans within his hunting range. When your overriding driving force was a feral need to slake your thirst, mistakes were made. Often many mistakes together, inevitably drawing the attention of even the most oblivious humans.

An occasional corpse could be taken in stride, even if the person had been a picture of good health the day before death. En masse slaughter was another matter. Even the most ignorant of humans would demand reasons for multiple members of their acquaintance coming up dead, missing or gravely ill.

"The morning will indeed be soon upon us," he said, walking quickly to the open doorway. "I fear I have kept you from your duties and I have been long expected elsewhere." He gave her a deep bow and ducked out before she could respond.

She followed close on his heels, but when she peeked out, the hallway was empty in both directions.

XXXXXXX

As he approached his appointed room, he slowed his pace sufficiently to be certain others noticed him. He caught the eye of several maids, a footman, and at least two ladies in waiting to the Spanish Princess destined to be Prince Arthur's Queen, when he ascended the throne.

_Ladies be damned!_ He wanted the girl in the scullery. The girl he swore he wouldn't take. He stalked into his room and slammed the door hard behind him. Less than an hour. He was across the room in an instant, throwing back the corner tapestry to reveal the door beneath.

When he pushed through, the tapestry hanging on Francesca's side of the wall was knocked from its rod. "Out!" he growled to the maid.

Her eyes wide with alarm, the girl scampered away like a frightened mouse, dropping the brush she held and leaving her Lady to fend for herself against the marauding Norseman bounding across her bedchamber.

How long had Susannah held him captive beneath the kitchens? "Hours", he'd heard her say, but it might have been years or mere moments. The passage of time had somehow been distorted, as he stood mesmerised by her movements.

He watched her peel and slice turnips. Nothing more. A simple task performed by humans of all ages the world over, every day. Though surely none with such grace of extension as she displayed when her arm dipped into the basket to make a selection, then rising out again with the next root to be flayed nestled gently in her fingers. It was captivating; watching the quick contractions of her wrist as she deftly navigated the surface with her blade, shearing away parchment thin strips of the outer skin to expose the sweeter meat beneath.

He listened to the sweet melody of her voice, chattering away in great detail about topics that held no interest for him, but it didn't matter. Between the listening and the watching, he was spellbound. It occurred to him, he would willingly; perhaps even happily consent to be flayed if the flaying was to be done by Susannah's delicate and skilled hands.

"Look what you've done!" Francesca complained, angrily pointing at the brush on the floor. "It is cracked! It was a gift from my husband!"

"Have him buy you another," Eric snarled before grabbing her roughly in both hands and lifting her until they were face to face.

She sucked in a breath to respond, but his strike stopped her. His fangs sank deep into the soft flesh of her neck, her futile struggles thwarted by his far superior strength.

His frenzied mind wandered as his mouth filled with blood. He wanted her. He wanted all of her. Her heart. Her mind. Her body and blood, he wanted it all and more. Above all else, he wanted her to want him, to be with him, forever. He swallowed hard, then drew deep and felt his mouth filling again.

"Eric, stop."

Something was wrong. The voice. Too low. Too weak. The melody was gone.

He opened his eyes and retracted his fangs at once. "You're -"

This was Francesca, not Susannah. Susannah was below stairs among the seemingly endless stores of food and cookery, where he had vowed to leave her. He was here with this frivolous, decorative creature. A raging hardness between his thighs demanded relief. He was consumed by a bloodlust he might need to kill a village to quench and there was under an hour until daybreak.

Though his mind was filled to bursting with Susannah, the needs of his body could not be denied, not if he intended to live. Of this there was no question. He must live. He must see Susannah again. And she must see him.

"I'll have you drawn and quartered," Francesca threatened between heaving breaths, but her passion was clearly born of desire, not hatred.

"You'll have me between your legs," he countered, taking two steps toward the bed before tossing her onto her back among the pillows.

She propped up onto one elbow, but before she could get her weight distributed between the two, he had her flat again. A narrow trickle of blood dripped slowly from the fresh wound on her neck to the clean white lace on the bedding beneath her. The sight of it spurred him to greater heights of arousal. In a matter of seconds his breeches were open and the skirt of her nightgown was over her head.

Tonight he did what rumors insisted he had been doing to Francesca for months. He ravished her. She bore the ferocity of his desire for another, believing it was for her. As she endured the brutality of his lust while he relentlessly pounded his way to a violent release, she told herself he was driven near mad by jealousy of her husband.

Immediately upon achieving his climax, he kissed her neck to seal the wounds and stared into her eyes. "You misplaced a ring tonight. You thought you left it on your plate at supper and you sent me in search of it. You later discovered it on your dressing table. We were involved until well after sunrise, when I retired to my room, where I am not to be disturbed."

A moment later he was fully dressed. He went to the window and flew off into the night. There was just over half an hour before dawn.

With only seconds to spare before sunrise, Eric went to ground in the soft earth beneath the farrier's cellar. The owner's blood was still wet on his fangs.

Before the sun set again, a new outbreak of Sweating Sickness would set upon the quiet village of Ludlow, by claiming the farrier as its first victim. Little could anyone have known it was an outbreak that would change the course of history.

XXXXXXX

A lifetime could pass in the sparks before the sun slipped beyond the horizon. A thousand lifetimes of lessons learned, faces and places remembered and sometimes things best left forgotten.

Tonight it was Ocella's face filling Eric's mind's eye in the flashing seconds as his body prepared to rise again. Appius Livius, his maker, who gifted him this half-life five centuries past, Ocella, to his friends and family.

"_Apart from our kind, detachment is your closest ally, my son. Distance and control are your dearest friends. Take what you need and what you want without regret. Desire left unsated will seize dominion of you. It will intensify all your needs until none can be met. You will be lost."_

Ocella's words were still ringing in his ears when his eyes opened. A whisper passed his lips. "Susannah."

Despite feeding briefly from Francesca and nearly draining the farrier only hours ago, the thirst was already building.

'_Take what you need.'_

The ringing, which had been Ocella's cool reassuring voice, was developing a distinct rhythm. Eric closed his eyes and listened for Ocella to impart more wisdom. None came. The rhythm grew louder and steadier. A pulse. He needed blood.

He emerged from the cellar still brushing dirt from his shoulders. _'Take what you need, without regret,' _was all he could hear over the deafening chorus of heartbeats. Ever the dutiful progeny, he followed Ocella's instructions.

Minutes later, as the farrier's wife lay passed out from blood loss, on the floor at his feet; he waited for relief to come. It did not. The need still twisted in the pit of his belly.

Voices were approaching the front of the cottage. He slipped out a rear door and disappeared into the night.

He wandered Ludlow, leaving ruin and despair with everyone he touched. Before making his way back to the castle, three more were drained beyond the ability of the local apothecary to diagnose or treat, and he'd killed a young woman outright when she attempted to resist his attentions.

Something was desperately wrong. He'd killed the woman before it even occurred to him to glamour her. He needed someplace quiet to think. He needed to figure out what was wrong with him.

'_Take what you need.'_

He needed … no, he wanted, Susannah.

'_Take what you want, without regret.'_

No. He gave her his assurance. He would take nothing from her she did not offer. The twist in his stomach was so sharp he almost cried out.

'_Desire left unsated will seize dominion over you. You will be lost.'_

Susannah. He would find Susannah. She would offer herself to him and all would be well. He would be found again. He would glamour her if he had to. Having decided upon his course, he set out for the maze of pantries and sculleries beneath the castle kitchens.

In the West side courtyard, halfway between the stables and the kitchens, there were seven apple trees, six in a circle surrounding the seventh. From his vantage point hidden in the branches of the tree nearest the kitchen he could see the doors were held open by heavy baskets of grapes. He couldn't see the door leading to the sculleries from where he crouched in the dark shadows, but he knew where it was. He waited.

Though it seemed interminable, it wasn't a long wait. He saw it happen. A man carrying a large platter laden with meats and a woman with a double armload of goblets to be washed, neither notices the other. Their collision and the ensuing commotion were heard throughout the courtyard and no doubt in at least the castle rooms adjoining the kitchen.

Eric zipped, at top speed, across the courtyard, over the chaos in the kitchen, through the door and into the sloping hallway beyond. The few who noticed him passing at all did not see a man; rather they merely felt the oddity of a slight breeze wafting by them, seemingly from the wrong direction. It merited no special notice by anyone and was forgotten by all just as summarily.

Tonight he did close his eyes. He singled her out at once. Eyes still closed, he was drawn to her as if she was summoning him; compelling him to come. He felt a sensation of floating on air and nearly took a tumble when he opened his eyes and realised he actually was flying.

He returned his feet to the floor and continued. It was only a few steps and there she was, more resplendent than any Lady decorating any royal court in all of Europe, standing there in her well-worn woolen dress and spattered apron.

He felt the now familiar hard twist in his gut, but he didn't care.

Tonight her table was piled high with carrots. _Perhaps the brighter color will make her work more cheerful_, he thought. Ridiculous notion, he realised upon further consideration, but the idea lingered in his mind. If she must work, he _wanted_ her work to be cheerful.

There was a burst of giggles just as two young women rounded the corner. It stopped the moment they saw him leaning against the wall opposite where Susannah stood with her back to him.

Eric looked at the two and lifted a finger to his lips as if he was involving them in some sort of conspiracy. They peered into the pantry, looked wide-eyed up at him, and then hurried on their way. They appeared happy not to be a part of whatever was about to happen between Susannah and the tall pale knight who had been down here searching for a lost ring only last night.

He waited a full minute after the women were out of sight before he spoke. "How long shall we continue pretending you don't know I'm here? I enjoy a good game as much as anyone, but I've never been fond of prolonged silence."

She turned and bent slightly at the knee. Without raising her eyes to his she said, "Begging your pardon, Sir Eric, but I don't know this game and I had no leave to speak to you."

"You're speaking to me now." Marveling at how well he grasped the obvious, he braced an arm on either side of the doorway, stepped forward and leaned his head in, but he did not overstep the threshold.

"You asked me a question, Sir."

"So I did," he conceded. "Look at me and I shall ask you another, if this is the only way to hear your voice."

She raised her eyes and looked into his. A slight flush accompanied the smile spreading slowly across her face.

"Beautiful."

It wasn't what he'd intended to say, but it needed to be said. The flush in her cheeks deepened to a blazing scarlet. She almost turned away, but he returned her smile and said, "No, no. Look at me."

He stared into her eyes and she held his gaze. Her focus never faltered. Her lids did not appear to become weighted. Something wasn't right.

"Come to me," he whispered.

She didn't come. In fact, though she didn't take a proper step, her left foot actually inched backward. Her smile vanished. Her heart began to race wildly and her gaze fell away from him.

"Susannah," he almost cried. _Was that desperation he heard in his voice?_

He reached out to her and stepped into the pantry.

Susannah sank to the floor as if her legs had suddenly melted out from under her. Staring into her lap, with her arms tightly wrapped around her middle, her words came out in lurching sobs. "Please, Sir Eric. I beg you."

His every fibre screamed to go to her and take her in his arms to comfort her, but he knew she would take no comfort in such an action. It would only frighten her further. He forced himself to back out of the room, backward until he felt the cold stone of the hallway wall behind him again.

"Be at ease, sweet Susannah. I will not break my vow to you. I will take nothing you have not offered."

She did not respond to him. She was crying.

"You need have no fear of me. I will never bring harm to you." _Was he begging the forbearance of a human peasant girl? Was such a thing even possible? _His stomach felt as if some vicious animal with long claws was trying to tear its way out of him.

Susannah was beginning to compose herself, her sobs receding into sniffles.

Eric removed a lace handkerchief from its usual place tucked in his sleeve and tossed it in her direction. He was careful to move nothing but his arm for fear of alarming her into more unwarranted hysterics.

The handkerchief landed in her lap. She picked it up and buried her face in it. For a moment he thought she was going to begin sobbing again, but thankfully she didn't. She looked up at him through tear-matted lashes and tried to speak.

"I," she began, but nothing more would come. She covered her mouth with her hand and took a gasping breath.

"It's alright," Eric said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "I've upset you and I apologise. It was not my intention. I will leave you now, but I would ask for your consent to call upon you again."

She said nothing, but nodded her head slowly, once, then again for emphasis.

That brought the smile back to his lips and he thought he could see her smile behind her hand.

"When next we meet, I pray you will not wait to be questioned before you speak."

Her shocked expression told him she was too entrenched in the rules of propriety to dare speak out to someone above her station.

"But only if we are alone," he added. "It will be our secret."

He saw the rigid line of her spine loosen a bit and heard her heart rate calm. The beast in his ribcage escalated its attack.

"I bid you good night," he said with an elegant bow.

"Oh!" she whispered and held up the handkerchief.

He smiled broadly. "It is yours," he said as he turned and took his leave of her.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Rufus Melkin was a merchant's son, born here in Ludlow some sixty-seven years ago according to the birth records kept by the church. His father had been a hard-working and talented salesman. He was a bold negotiator, but he had the duly earned reputation of being a fair man.

The elder Mister Melkin built up a solid business and as a result, the family fortunes were raised considerably, enough that he was able to grant the fondest wish of his only son's heart.

At twenty-two, Rufus Melkin was enrolled to study medicine at Bart's Hospital in London. The move changed his life in almost every way possible.

He applied himself diligently to his work, devoting every available hour to research, reading and scrutinising drawings and diagrams. For the first seven of his ten-year tenure at Bart's he allowed himself no respite from constant study. Then in the Summer of 1464, he saw her for the first time. His lovely Anne.

She was as lovely as a Summer rose and just as fragile. She sat in the ward, beside her father for hours every day until he died. There were two weeks of bouts of violent cramps and vomiting, coupled with loose bloodied stool before he finally passed quietly in his sleep.

Perhaps if he'd come to Bart's sooner the treatment might have taken better hold and helped him. No one could say for certain. As a pious man, he had first turned to the church for aid and comfort, but when incense and prayers did nothing to diminish his symptoms, he consented to be taken to Bart's. By then he was far gone. Too far gone as it turned out. He'd been a butcher by trade and Rufus always suspected the common practice of using the same knives to butcher different animals was a contributing factor to his death.

The butcher left two unmarried daughters and no sons. His widow was only too thrilled when a physician in training offered to take one of the girls off her hands. Particularly when the offer came with a promise to assist in finding an equally advantageous match for her sister.

His beautiful perennial blossom gave him twenty-one years of happiness, two sons and a daughter more delicate than she, who died before the fifth anniversary of her birth.

The new life he made was in London and he would have remained there until his death, had an untimely accident not cut short his career. A single misstep; the coincidence of placing his foot at precisely the wrong angle at exactly the right time, sent him tumbling down a flight of marble stairs at a large manor house.

At first he'd been convinced he would never survive the pain long enough to allow the many breaks to mend. He soon discovered the limits of endurance are high when the body and mind are unified in their determination to live. A blow to his head had kept him unconscious for the first three days. When he woke, he cursed God for it not having been longer.

There was a crack in the right side of his skull, just above his ear. He was certain it was this injury that caused the dull phantom ringing he often heard for hours at a time, though it did tend to happen less frequently as the years passed. Of course, his hearing in general was worsening as he aged, so perhaps he was simply growing deaf to the bells.

His jaw and both clavicles were broken. As were his right wrist along with the thumb and two fingers of that hand. He had performed his last surgery. Both legs were broken as well, the right in two places, the left in three, one of which was the cap of his knee. That one was more of a crush than a break. He would never again walk without the aid of a stick. He was left with a gait that was most unbecoming.

He was painfully aware of the vulgar sight it must be to watch the twists and jerks his body went through in order for him to move from one place to another. What others did not see was the agony that accompanied the display.

Rufus Melkin, the master physician, had become a master at disguising his pain. He remembered how he used to marvel at the extraordinary tales he would hear of men who lived through months and even years of torture in prison dungeons. He often dismissed the stories as impossible exaggerations. He didn't doubt them any more. His own body had become the dungeon imprisoning and torturing him. Each day, the extension of his life was fought for, and won, by the sheer strength of his will alone.

Today Rufus sat, as he often did in the afternoons, in the plush cushioned chair he'd designed himself and commissioned a carpenter to make for him. It was a little wider and the seat was a little higher than most fashionable chairs, but his design allowed room for extra cushions to be placed around him when he became uncomfortable. Comfort was a much higher priority than fashion. His chair was positioned next to the Westerly facing window to take full advantage of the afternoon sun. He was reading a letter from a friend in London.

Peg, the housekeeper, was frowning when she entered the room. She was still frowning as she spoke to Rufus. "I apologise for the intrusion Master Melkin, but a woman came to the kitchen to ask your assistance."

"The kitchen, you say?" Rufus placed the letter on a small table next to his chair and looked at Peg. "What does she need? If she's ill, we don't want her in the kitchen. Better have her come around to the front."

"She appears to be well. Her brother is John Styles, the farrier. John fell ill yesterday morning and seems to be much worse today. His wife Rachel was found around sundown last night, raving like a mad woman, and now she looks very bad as well."

His brows furrowed and the crooked fingers of his right hand stroked his chin as he considered what Peg told him. "Was there fever?" he asked at last.

"No," Peg replied, her features contorting into a confused expression.

"What is it?" Rufus didn't like waiting for information. He knew all too well, there were times when information delayed by mere seconds could make a world of difference in an outcome.

"It didn't make any sense when she said it. Joan, the woman in the kitchen, said her brother complained of being very hot, of burning, before he got too weak to talk, but he is not warm to touch. Now his wife shivers and says she is chilled to her bones, yet she didn't feel cold to Joan."

"Get my bag," the physician ordered as he began his struggle to extricate himself from his chair.

When Peg reached out to offer her assistance, he warned her away with an irritated glare. "I said to get my bag, not me. I'll get myself."

When he was halfway to a standing position, he groped along the side of his chair and found his walking stick.

He looked to his housekeeper, who was standing nearby holding his medical bag filled with an assortment of surgical instruments, herbs and medical concoctions, a small book of anatomical drawings and a folded chart correlating the connections between the Humors, Tempers, Elements, astrological influences and human anatomy. He had committed every item of information on the chart to memory many years ago, but it was useful to have on hand if a patient, or more likely a patient's wife, questioned his memory.

"In future, Peg, I will thank you to relay all the information you have and allow me to decide what does or does not make sense. Now go put the bag in the carriage and tell Boyce to meet me in front. The woman can ride up top with him."

"Right away, Master Melkin," Peg replied before hurrying out the way she'd come in.

Rufus looked to the double doors across the room. They seemed farther away every day. If he concentrated hard enough on the task, perhaps he would arrive at the main entry before Boyce this time. Probably not, but Rufus had seen miracles before.

XXXXXXX

From his vantage point beside a lone tree on a hill, Eric looked down on the village of Ludlow through pitiless eyes. He bore them no ill will. In point of fact, he bore them no will at all. His dispassionate stare was that of a shepherd looking down upon his flock to select which was to be slaughtered for the evening meal.

The reanimated muscles and sinew of his abdomen were coiled and knotted. The strain grew by the minute until he felt as if even one small move in the wrong direction might cause them all to snap in unison, leaving him paralysed, unable to do anything but lie and wait for the sun to reclaim him.

To have gone from requiring feeding only once or twice in a fortnight to this unrelenting need was maddening. He wondered how long he and the population of Ludlow could sustain it? Not long, he feared.

There. A girl slipped out the rear door of a small cottage at the village edge. She ran toward a fenced paddock where three horses were quietly drinking from a trough. The girl glanced back at the house often as she went. The horses whickered and bobbed their heads as she approached. One pawed the ground.

Eric smiled at her awkward attempt at stealth. It was all he could manage.

Completing the clandestine lovers play, a boy waited on the far side of the enclosure, concealed from the house. Unfortunately for them, neither the boy nor the girl was concealed from Eric.

It was like watching a pantomime show. Were he not wracked with pain he might have been entertained. He may have even laughed. Circumstances being what they were, however, he required his full attention to be focused, on not draining the couple dry.

If they ended up dying after he fed, so be it, but they must be able to cling to life long enough to be found by others. A countryside littered with corpses, dead for no apparent reason, meant a killer was on the loose. Conversely, people found near death and exhibiting symptoms were believed to have simply fallen ill and died as a result. Conveniently for vampires, the symptoms of death by exsanguination were easily mistaken for other ailments.

And of course, leaving them alive also alleviated the little problem of getting rid of their external wounds. No amount of vampire blood would heal a bite mark on a cadaver.

Showtime was over. It was time to try and lessen his anguish. Like a vengeful archangel, he swooped down upon the couple lying in the grass, as they embraced for the last time.

Eric left five suffering varying degrees of blood loss before returning to the castle.

He entered through the front, forgoing or at least forestalling the temptations of the kitchens. At present, he had more pressing business. His stomach was not the only part of his body screaming for relief.

He strode across the entry and took the stairs two at a time, sending courtiers and servants alike scrambling to get out of his path. He was in no humour for subtlety. If they gave him any trouble, they could all die tonight as far as he was concerned.

He passed his room without so much as a thought and went directly to Francesca's door. One strike with the heel of his hand and it opened with a crash as it hit the wall inside. Francesca and Emily, her maid, both screamed.

"Careful, My Lady. You will attract unwarranted attention from the neighbors." He grabbed the door, pushed it closed and dropped the bar in place.

"Where have you been?" Francesca demanded as if speaking to an errant child who had stolen away with her favourite toy. "Many of the ladies asked after you at the dance."

Eric laughed out loud at her indignant tone. A deep belly laugh; it hurt like hell, but afterwards he thought his stomach might actually feel a bit better. "You were not left in want of a partner, surely?"

Francesca stood, buttoning the front of her dressing gown and drawing in a deep breath as she did. She was preparing to launch into a tirade.

At the same time Emily gathered the courage to leave. She took only three steps before Eric bellowed, "HALT!"

Both women came to an immediate full stop. He looked at Emily. She was terrified. She looked as though she might lose control of her bladder or worse at any moment. _If she's able to contain herself_, he thought, _I might have her as well before the night is through._ "Sit," he commanded.

Both women obeyed, Emily crumpling into a heap on the floor and Francesca plopping back into her chair.

Eric looked over his shoulder and laughed again when he saw Francesca sitting despite her obvious outrage. His laughter lit a fire behind her eyes and watching her seethe worked on him like an aphrodisiac. "It is gratifying to see you brought to heel, my dear Francesca, but you needn't sit; not there anyway. I have another position in mind for you."

Francesca jumped from her seat and mustered her most affronted tone. "Sir, you are mistaken if you believe you will enjoy the comforts of my bed again after your disgraceful behaviour. You entered this bedchamber without the slightest discretion. I will enjoy watching the royal guards roust you from the property." She lifted her chin defiantly as she watched him strip to the waist, and as with almost all humans, her breathing and racing heart gave her away.

Eric sauntered to the bed and sat down on the end. He stretched his arms wide and grasped a post on each side, his sleek, broad chest on full display. He heard a hitch in Emily's breathing followed by a series of muffled hiccoughs. He didn't need to look to know she was staring.

"Francesca, there isn't a soul in this castle who will come within twenty paces of your bedchamber door tonight unless you begin screaming for aid, and even then you may be surprised by the small number of potential rescuers you reap."

She drew in a breath.

"Think carefully. Is it truly your wish to exile me from your bed?" Eric simply stared, like a cat at a birdcage.

Emily stared too. She saw her mistress open her mouth several times and begin to move her lips as if to speak, then close it again.

"I though not," Eric said. He smiled and began carelessly unlacing his breeches with one hand.

Emily's hiccoughs, and her breathing, paused in her throat.

With his eyes locked on Francesca's, he gave the thin leather lace a final tug and flung it in Emily's direction. "Don't lose that," he murmured as his erection pushed the front flap of his breeches aside to stand free and proud.

Emily's breathing resumed with a gasp. She was by no means a virgin, but she'd never seen a man in this state of undress before.

"I suppose you think such vulgar behaviour attractive?" Francesca snapped, but her own breathing was becoming as heavy as Emily's.

There was a new scent in the air, two actually. He might be hearing protests, but bodies don't lie and theirs were both readying themselves to receive him. Even the ever-present twisting in his gut couldn't keep the smile from his lips.

"Your mouth is becoming tiresome, Francesca," he said in a voice as smooth as silk. "Shall we find it a new occupation?"

Francesca took a step back and feigned an expression of horrified shock in her eyes, but the way her lips curled up at the corners and her tongue darted out to wet them betrayed her true feelings.

"You expect me to …"

"Spare me your pretended sensibilities, madam," he said roughly, kicking his boots off and slipping gracefully out of his breeches. He was completely naked and unashamed. "You know what I expect and I know what you want. Now, let us see if you're capable of what any innkeeper's daughter can do well, for two pennies and a civil word." He resumed his seat at the end of the bed.

A short, high-pitched whimper escaped Emily. Her scent was growing stronger. Eric had no doubt her small clothes were soaked through. It would be cruel not to see that she too was well serviced before dawn.

Francesca took a tentative step toward the bed. "You've offered me no pennies, Sir," she said in what she imagined to be her most alluring voice.

"Nor am I likely to be civil," he answered with a chuckle. He tossed a pillow on the floor between his feet, spread his knees and leaned back on his elbows. "Kneel."

Francesca took another step toward the bed and hesitated long enough to look down at Emily. "You may go." Nothing could have prepared her for what happened next. Emily didn't get up to leave; she looked to Eric.

He responded with another loud burst of laughter. "There you have it, My Lady. A good servant always knows who is in charge. She stays, and you kneel."

Francesca pushed Emily from her thoughts and returned her attention to where it wanted to be anyway. There was no point in continuing to pretend otherwise. With her eyes fixed on the erection standing between his thighs, she walked to it and lowered herself onto the pillow on the floor. This was the thing that had given her such pleasures these last weeks. Though she'd felt it many times as it sent her crashing over and over through the gates of heavens she'd only dreamt of before; gates her husband had never come close to approaching, she'd never actually seen it until now. It was beautiful.

"Much more delay and I shall shunt you aside in favour of Emily," he announced.

Emily's back straightened and a shy smile crept to her lips.

Sharp stabs of indignant jealousy made Francesca reach out as if claiming Eric's cock as her own possession by wrapping her hand tightly around the base. When he reacted by dropping his head back and letting out a long low groan, she knew she had regained a bit of control. With the goal of becoming his new standard of excellence, she took him in her mouth determined to erase all memories of innkeeper's daughters from his mind.

Once he had Francesca settled into a pleasurable rhythm, he turned to Emily and instructed her to disrobe. Francesca slowed in response but a hand at the back of her head and a couple of quick hip thrusts quickly had her back in line.

Emily was standing naked where she had been sitting fully clothed. Eric summoned her to the bed with a quick flick of two fingers. She responded instantly. He raised his right knee until his foot rested on the bed. He instructed Emily to sit facing him, with her feet tucked under her, her knees slightly apart and her right arm holding onto his raised leg for support.

He didn't know if it was modesty or a chill in the air, but Emily was blushing and covered in gooseflesh; the effect was lovely.

"Don't stop, Francesca. You've found your calling, My Lady. You're almost there." Words of praise and encouragement often went far toward improving the performance of novices.

He placed a hand on Emily's inner thigh, but took a moment to enjoy the delightful thing Francesca was doing with her tongue before he advanced. He brought Emily to the edge of release before having her lean forward so he could take a hard dark nipple and most of a perfect plum breast in his mouth. He sank his fangs in just as she slipped over the edge of her climax, his bite holding her in place and forcing her to ride the crest until her blood coursing through him triggered his climax and he retracted his fangs, quickly biting his tongue and licking her wounds before allowing her up.

Francesca raised her face, gasping for air and licking her lips hungrily. Eric gave her a smile for her efforts.

He made a circular swirling gesture with one hand and said, "Ladies, if you would be so good as to exchange places, we can continue."

And so passed the next two hours, a gluttonous feast of bodily fluids and sins of the flesh. A quick glamouring and he was off for one more feeding to dull the pain before going to ground.

Though he'd erased their memory of the meaning, for his own amusement he left four pennies, two on each side of the dressing table.

XXXXXXX

John the farrier was already dead before Rufus arrived. His wife Rachel lived a few more hours, long enough to make Rufus suspicious of a cause but alas not sufficient time to make a positive diagnosis.

It was definitely illness rather than injury, since all available evidence pointed to John passing the malady to his wife. Injuries were not contagious.

Based on the last hours of Rachel's life during which the patient presented with delirium, with swings from paranoia to unexplained giddiness, exhaustion, a strong urge to sleep, headache and profuse sweating accompanied by chills. Rufus suspected the one illness he'd hoped to never see again.

In 1485, an outbreak of Sweating Sickness swept through London. It took thousands. It took his Anne. The wards at Bart's were filled to capacity. Every day more would die and every day more would come, looking for treatment and a cure.

Some families were wiped clean of living adults. For reasons known only to God, the sickness did not pass to infants or small children, so the ranks of orphans swelled in numbers. Tragedy stacked upon tragedy. Only the dreaded plague cast a longer shadow.

If it was indeed Sweating Sickness, he would soon have lines of patients and there was no hospital in Ludlow. It was imperative that he reach new cases as soon as possible.

Most citizens, apart from the nobility, did not read or write, so public notices were not very effective. He needed information spread by word of mouth. He gathered the family members who were tending to John and Rachel.

He asked them to tell everyone of their acquaintance to be aware of any sudden illness. If they know of anyone or hear of anyone who suddenly has sweating or chills with no obvious cause, delusions or unreasonable giddiness, severe headache or sudden debilitating exhaustion or prostration, they must contact him at once, or get the patient to him as quickly as possible.

If indeed this is an outbreak, they must do everything in their power to try and contain it.

Before anyone left the house, as John's sisters were preparing the bodies of John and Rachel for burial and Rufus was packing his supplies back into his bag, a boy knocked at the front door. His mother was ill and he heard the doctor was here.

As Rufus was climbing into his carriage to be taken to see the boy's mother, a frantic man ran over and clutched the sleeve of the physician's coat.

"Please, Master Melkin! You must come! It's my daughter, Sir. We found her and a stable boy out behind the paddock. My girl is sweating something fierce and she keeps passing out. We can't keep her awake no matter what we do. The boy is cackling and carrying on like his mind has cracked. He's scaring me poor wife out of her wits. She's sure he's been taken by a demon. I'm begging you. You must come."

Curiosity more than medical necessity made Rufus ask, "The boy, what exactly is he saying?"

When the man answered, his voice was low as if he was betraying a confidence or maybe even actually afraid himself. "He says they were attacked by an evil spirit that looked like a man and flew down from the sky to attack them."

"He claims they were attacked? Do they have any injuries?" Rufus asked. He had a possible outbreak to deal with. Treating victims of an attack couldn't be allowed to distract him, unless there was serious injury.

"A few bumps and bruises. Nothing more than you'd expect to see on a boy sneaking around to see a girl he has no consent to see."

Rufus looked the man dead in the eye. "Did you cause any of these bumps and bruises when you discovered he was with your daughter?"

The man brought himself up to his full height. "I swear, I never did, Sir. But I can't swear I won't if he lives through this."

"Fair enough," Rufus said. "What about your daughter? Does she have bumps and bruises too?"

"No, Sir. Her Ma's looked her all over. Says there's not a mark on her."

"I see. I agree, it doesn't sound like an attack," Rufus said to the man.

Rufus established that the boy with the ill mother lived in a larger house than the man with the young couple. They all got into the carriage. Boyce dropped Rufus and the boy to the boy's house, and then drove the man back to his house to get the couple and bring them to the doctor. It was a little tangled, but it would work more efficiently, for the time being.

It was happening.

XXXXXXX

one week later

Rufus stared up at the portrait of Anne he'd had commissioned only three years prior to her death. It seemed fitting somehow to have her looking down upon a room filled with people he was trying to save from the same affliction that had so cruelly taken her from him. It was almost as if by saving them, he could make recompense for having failed so miserably in his efforts to save her.

He reached up and touched the painted hem of her skirt as lovingly as if he could feel the lace. "Watch over them, Anne," he whispered. "And if they come to you in heaven, make my apologies and tell them I tried."

He took a deep breath and returned his gaze to his patients. Fourteen were still breathing at the moment. He knew of eight dead, but there was no way of knowing if there were others, at least not yet. There could be people who lived alone and their illness had thus far gone unnoticed or undiscovered. Even worse was the thought of travelers; people struck down by the sickness dying alone in the forests. Even if the sickness didn't kill them, they would be weakened to the point of being unable to fend off the attacks of animals and birds of prey.

"No new patients today," Peg whispered, a tired but hopeful smile adorning her face. She was carrying a stack of clean and freshly folded thin blankets. "It's nigh on midday. I'd say that's a good omen. Would you agree, Master Melkin?"

"I am a man of science, Peg. I depend on my eyes and my acquired knowledge. Omens are the purview of mid-wives and priests."

Peg's shoulders slumped along with her expression.

Rufus felt as if Anne was looking at him from behind her portrait; chastising him for dismissing Peg's attempt to cheer him.

He leaned in close to Peg, as close as he dare without the risk of losing his balance and toppling over, "But I do take encouragement from the number of our guests not increasing. As long as we don't find ourselves in need of a Wallace Wall, we should make it through this."

"A Wallace Wall? I'm not sure I follow, Sir."

_Of course she'd have no notion of what he meant. How could she?_

"I've been searching for an excuse to sit down and rest my legs. I thank you for supplying it," he said in a kindly tone, giving a gentle pat to the armload of blankets. "Put those down and join me by the window."

He limped and jerked his way through two neatly arranged rows of beds, chaises and cots (left over from when his sons were young and wont to have numerous guests of a similar age). Each time he performed this maneuver he was reminded of one of the many cardinal rules he learned at Bart's. _NEVER have patients where you make your residence. A physician requires the quiet, contemplative sanctity of a home away from the constant comings and goings of patients and their families._

It was his comings and goings Rufus was concerned with now. He'd tried a week back to make his hospital in the home of another. The boy who fetched him from the farrier's house, the boy's father agreed at first, out of gratitude for the doctor responding to their plea so quickly. But when it became clear the woman would survive the sickness, her husband no longer wanted other sick people around his wife. Understandable, albeit inconvenient.

He had his patients brought here to his home and here they would remain until the sickness left Ludlow or claimed him among its victims.

When Rufus had situated himself in his chair, Peg came and stood beside him. "Shall I bring your footstool, Sir?"

"No, not now." He gestured toward the bench below the window. "Please, sit."

Peg sat and folded her hands in her lap.

"The Wallace Wall," he began, charging straight into his tale, "is the outer wall of Bart's that faces The Elms at Smithfield. You've probably heard stories of the many executions carried out at The Elms."

Peg felt a shiver run up her spine and she nodded in the affirmative.

"Well, great crowds gather when there's an execution. It draws more people than a puppet farce or players performing epic poems. I never understood it. I still don't."

Rufus shook his head as if forcing an unpleasant thought from the forefront before continuing. "You know who William Wallace was?"

Another nod from Peg, "The traitor."

"Yes, well, when he was executed the crowd filled every bit of space within sight of The Elms. People were packed in tight all the way to the wall of Bart's."

"The Wallace Wall."

Rufus smiled. Anne had taught him the value of having intelligent servants. There was much to be said for not having to impart the simplest of instructions in excruciating detail. "The very one. Almost immediately people started claiming they heard the screams and cries of those who'd been executed at The Elms. Some said they heard Wallace himself pacing the wall, trying to rally an army of the damned to rise up against England."

Peg gasped and raised a hand to her throat.

"Don't believe a word of it. It's all a lot of twaddle made up to frighten children and women. I was in and around Bart's over thirty-five years and I never heard Wallace or any of the rest of them make a sound after they were dead." He didn't tell her the tales were mostly invented by the medical students and intended to frighten tradesmen's daughters the students would bring to the gardens surrounding Bart's. A frightened girl was much more likely to offer her favours and attentions to a willing champion.

The students would tell the stories hoping the girls would be frightened and cuddle close to them for protection. Many a student had bragged of receiving much and more than a cuddle beneath the Wallace Wall.

Rufus let out a reassuring chuckle. Peg returned her hand to her lap and seemed to visibly relax.

"As I may have told you, the last time I saw Sweating Sickness was in London, seventeen years ago. We had hundreds at Bart's. When the wards overflowed, we put the sick on blankets outside and prayed it didn't rain. They were laid out in rows, the first being along the Wallace Wall.

That was my point, Peg. As long as the number of sick can be managed inside here with us,"

"We won't need a Wallace Wall," she finished.

"You're a good girl, Peg. My dear Anne would have liked you. I'll have the footstool now. I'm going to close my eyes for an hour. Check the clock and wake me then; sooner if a need arises."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Eric's nights had fallen into a wanton pattern of murderous debauchery. Dozens were paying the price for his inexplicable attachment to Susannah and he didn't care. Nor did he waste any time with futile attempts to justify his actions. He wanted Susannah, but he refused to take her without her leave. His refusal caused him pain. The pain had to be relieved. It was that simple. No regrets.

He'd gone to ground behind the cellar wall of John and Rachel's Earthly residence. It was convenient on several levels. It was dark and with the occupants of the house deceased, it was blissfully quiet. He had time to think in peace before rising each night.

It also boasted the added advantage of a prime location; _prime_ being defined as within the town of Ludlow, thus placing him in the midst of his chosen herd of prey. At the same time, it was far enough away from Ludlow Castle he did not wake with Susannah's scent in the air around him.

He found the initial wave of pain that washed over him soon after waking, to be infinitely easier to tolerate when his nose was not being assaulted by her scent. For good or ill, he was adapting to his new normal. He was nothing, if not versatile.

When he arrived in the doorway of the scullery where she worked tonight, he'd not been there ten full seconds when she giggled. How he'd come to adore that sound.

"I can't hear you breathing, but I know you're there," she said, and giggled again.

"May I enter the sanctum without inciting a panic?" he asked. She was scrubbing stacks of plates tonight. He stood waiting for her response. For all his efforts at setting her at ease, she was still as skittish as an orphan colt.

She turned toward him, not full faced, just enough to let him see she was smiling. "You must be aware you have a fearful and threatening presence, Sir Eric. Surely you would think me foolish if I failed to notice."

"I think you nothing but beautiful, Susannah. You may notice me or not, as you please." She lowered her head and he thought he heard another quiet giggle, but he wasn't sure.

"You are a large man. I think it would be impossible not to notice you."

Eric accepted her words as complimentary, and though she issued no invitation, he came two steps into the room. He could see she struggled to prevent it, but her entire body tensed in response to him entering.

He advanced no nearer, but took a step to the side so he was within her field of vision rather than directly behind her. "If I may, my Lady Susannah, I would ask to address a small matter of business before we proceed."

"Business, Sir? With me?"

"More of a small accommodation really, and of course you are under no obligation to comply."

"Ask what you will." She did not relax in the least and she still had yet to face him directly.

"If only for tonight, shall we dispense with playing the scene where you believe, yet again, I am come to violate you?" He paused for several seconds during which time she made no reply. "I would consider it a great kindness, if you would allow me to suppose, for one night at least, that you did not find me to be completely disagreeable."

"No, Sir Eric, no! You cannot believe I think you so?"

Her entire body swung to face him. He saw the features of her face for less than a second before her hair caught up to her head and covered most of the left side of her face. He could feel the features of his own face harden into what must be a terrifying expression. He saw the alarm register in her eyes just before she dropped to her knees in front of him.

"You have always treated me honorably and with more kindness than I deserve. I don't know why I've been so silly around you. I-" She was babbling.

"Enough," he said through gritted teeth, compelling his fangs to remain out of sight. He extended his hand down to her.

"Take my hand, Susannah." When she didn't, he added, "Or shall I join you on the floor?"

"Sir Eric, you mustn't be angry," she pleaded in a shaky voice as she slid her small hand into his.

"Mustn't I?" he asked, gently pulling her to her feet. "I believe you will find it a difficult enterprise to dictate the anger of another. Lift your face, please."

He heard a catch in her throat. She was going to cry.

He softened his tone as much as he was able. "Your face. Show it to me."

Slowly she raised her head and gave a slight wince when he swept her hair back. She watched as something dark and deadly took up residence in his pale blue eyes. "Please don't do anything. You'll only make it worse."

"You are mistaken, Sweetest Lady. I would never do anything to make it worse for you. Though you may be assured I will make it worse for someone. Who did this?" The entire left side of her face was badly bruised. She had been struck. Hard. More than once.

"It was my fault, Sir Eric. I must have chipped the plate while I was washing it. His Royal Highness, The Prince, he cut his hand when he touched it. I could have been taken to the dungeons and, and, anything could have happened to me."

Susannah threw herself into him and wrapped her arms around his midsection. The twisting pain was gone, replaced by an overwhelming fury. Someone had dared to strike his Susannah, by order of that petulant brat above stairs who aspired to be King. He _cut_ his hand on a chipped plate? Eric would rip it from his arm and beat him with it, then dare him to try and order retribution.

But first he must comfort Susannah, who stood tightly wound about him as she sobbed into his chest.

He could take her now. She was frightened and insecure. She would allow it without thinking. He _could_ take her now, but no god of heaven or Earth would be able to make him do it.

"Shhhhh," he whispered into her hair. "All will be well. Let us go outdoors and have a walk in the gardens. It will ease your head."

She gasped and pushed back, gaping at him in horror. "I can't go walk in the gardens! Among the Ladies? It would never be borne! I have to finish these plates. Master Melkin is sending a cart for me. I saw him in town today and promised I would come to sit with his patients until morning."

"I see," Eric replied. "I didn't realise Ludlow had a physician, aside from those who attend the court, of course."

"He's very old. He lived here as a boy and only came back a few years ago because he had an accident. He doesn't walk very well any more. There's been an outbreak of some kind of sickness in town and Master Melkin has more than a dozen of them at his house."

"Mmmm, you are forgetting the matter of a name. You see, I fear my honor will not permit me to allow you out of this room until you have told me who abused you thus."

"I'm your prisoner?"

"Don't be absurd. Think of yourself as The Queen of Love and Beauty and me as your champion."

"This is not a tournament, Sir Eric, and you have not given me your banner."

"All of life is a tournament, my dear Susannah and if memory serves, I am dispossessed of a handkerchief which I left in your care. My tailor made it especially for me, there is no other like it. I entreat you to accept it as my banner." He bent low at the waist, in a dramatic bow that would be thought ridiculous even if one were being presented to the King.

She ran to the doorway and peeked out. Seeing no one, she returned. "Oh, do be serious and please stand up. Don't let anyone see you like that."

She was scolding him, but she was smiling as she did it. The brightest smile he'd seen tonight. He wouldn't press her any further for now. "As you command, My Lady."

"And please stop calling me that. It isn't right."

A playful grin spread across his face. "Fortunately for me, Lady, when it comes to matters of the heart the rules are pliant. When a man is applying for the favours of a young woman, all manner of addresses are accepted as right and good."

"You're impossible," she said with a laugh.

He reached out and pulled her to him. She did not flinch. "Improbable, Susannah, not impossible."

Her bemused expression as she looked up at him made him want nothing more than to kiss her. _Not yet_, he thought. He did bend and softly touch his lips to her forehead, just at the outermost edge of the highest bruise.

"Now, I seem to recall you saying something about a cart coming to transport you to town."

"Yes, but I have to -"

"Leave them. I will tell Ted Willards it was I who made you leave them. I may even give him a few coins for the trouble of finding someone else to do the job."

Eric noticed how she tensed when he spoke Willards' name, and she had not exhaled since. This was likely the answer to the question she was so loathe to answer. He placed a hand at the small of her back and gave her a gentle nudge toward the door. "Shall we go?"

When they reached the door leading into the kitchen, Susannah passed through with Eric holding it in such a way that it blocked those in the kitchen from seeing him. He knew Ted Willards was in the kitchen. He'd recognized the scent when he first came through tonight.

Willards saw Susannah the moment she entered. She was the cause of the six agonizing raw welts across his back, meted out by a royal guard wielding the pole end of a stave. He'd given her three good wallops to the side of her head before the strain of swinging at her caused his back to start oozing again. If she were back for more, he would be happy to give it to her.

"Why didn't you bring a load of clean platters up?" Willards barked as he started across the kitchen at her. "Do I need to pound some more sense into your stupid head?"

Susannah let out an odd sort of squeal and dropped to a squatting position with her chin tucked and her arms over her head for protection. Eric stepped through the door, positioning himself between Susannah and Ted Willards' lumbering body.

Willards froze in place, his raised fist less than an arm's length from Eric's jaw.

"Your follow through appears to be somewhat lacking Mister Willards, and I confess I do not recollect how I offended you. I departed our last meeting believing you a pious man. As I recall, I said as much."

The half-dozen or so other people in the kitchen stared at Willards, waiting to see how he would play his part in this bizarre confrontation. He lowered his arm, and then stood motionless and mute.

Eric looked around as if confused by his surroundings, his eyes finally resting on Susannah. "Surely the target of that fleshy club you were brandishing was not the Lady cowering in the floor here?"

Susannah was silent. Ted Willards would have been wise to follow her example. Though in truth, what he said or didn't say was no longer of any consequence, his fate was already sealed.

"She is no Lady!" Willards bellowed. He didn't realise the severity of his mistake until he watched the evil close-lipped smile creep across Eric's face.

"You have heard me style her thus, Mister Willards. As these good people can bear witness," Eric replied with a sweeping gesture around the room. His smile disappeared and his tone dropped a full octave, exuding pure menace. "Do you name me a liar?"

Silence.

Eric looked around at his audience. "My hearing seems to have failed me." Now when he smiled it was all teeth and charm. Susannah was crying softly. He bent and took her by the arm, helping her to her feet.

He noticed the girl who was with child and spoke to her. "My Lady is distressed. A cup of ale."

"I am well," Susannah said. Then pointing outside she added, "Look, the cart is here. I need to go."

"As you wish." He led her through the door and lifted her onto the back of the cart before hopping up beside her. "Away to the physician's house," he said with a flourish.

"Her ale, milord!"

Eric took the cup and passed it to Susannah, who took it without question and drank. She was beyond arguing.

"You folks ready?" Boyce asked from the driver seat.

"In ten seconds," Eric replied, before leaning toward the girl who brought the ale. "What is your name, girl?"

"Jeania."

"I diverted Susannah from finishing her assigned duties tonight. If you will scrub her platters, morrow night I will see you receive three shillings."

"I will, milord!"

"Good girl," he said. He looked at Susannah. "Drink up, My Lady and enjoy the ride, for you'll have no rest tonight."

Susannah burst into gales of laughter. Eric couldn't have been more delighted.

XXXXXXX

Boyce's wife Lenore greeted them at the rear entrance to the house. She was understandably taken aback by Eric coming along, but he charmed her into agreeing to them being left without a chaperone by explaining he came along to assist in the even a patient fell from their bed, needed to be turned or some other circumstance requiring more strength than Susannah could summon on her own.

As instructed by Lenore, every half hour they walked as quietly as possible up and down the room until they passed by each patient twice, once from each side. They were to keep the patients covered, but not add or remove cover, no matter how the patient complained of heat or cold. Any other patient requests were to be granted if possible. They could have something to drink or a bit of bread if they felt they could eat.

No one asked for food. Two were thirsty and several others simply wanted to be more comfortable. They asked for their pillows to be fluffed or help changing positions.

Eric helped move those who needed help moving, otherwise he watched as Susannah brought comfort to others with nothing but sympathetic smiles, cool cloths and softly whispered words of encouragement. Any or all of them could die before sunrise, but showed no fear or favouritism. She gave each of them her attention for as long as they wanted it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd admired a human as much. Possibly as long ago as when his father was alive.

Midway through the night, after finishing her rounds of the patient room, she collapsed into a chair in the dining room. Eric rushed to her side, but her smile told him she was well.

"I'm just tired," she said, sensing he sought reassurance.

"You are an extraordinary woman, Susannah," he said, pulling up a chair beside her and sitting. "Your skills are wasted in a scullery."

The only response she gave was a smile and a muffled scoff.

"Where would you live if you could live forever?" Eric asked in a soft voice, his arms resting on his knees and leaning close to her, so she would not need to speak loudly to be heard.

Susannah considered for a moment and answered, "I don't think I'd like to live forever, and if I was going to live forever, I don't think I'd want to know it."

He wasn't prepared for her answer. He'd asked the question many times, never intending to offer the option but now he'd decided to offer the gift and it was being returned to him unopened.

"Why ever not?" he asked.

"Watching all the people I know die. Then meeting new people and watching them grow old and die too? No. I wouldn't want a life filled with that much sadness."

She couldn't comprehend the question and he couldn't explain it. If only he could glamour her, he could tell her about forever and if she still didn't want it, he could erase her memory of the discussion. Unfortunately, his attempt at glamouring her had resulted in disaster and he couldn't risk her knowing about his true nature unless he was certain she would choose to join him.

"Nor would I wish you a life of sadness." Acceptance and resignation were already settling upon him. He noticed there was no pain in his stomach. When had it stopped? He last remembered feeling it when he awoke at sunset. When what he wanted above all things was to possess her. There was something he wanted even more now.

"In place of immortality, what would you have, if you could have anything?"

She smiled a dreamy smile and leaned back in the chair with a sigh. "Anything?"

"In a perfect world. Anything." He was a cat at a birdcage again, studying her every movement, every breath, hanging on the anticipation of her every word, fascinated to see what the bird would do when it was set free.

"A house," she said at last, her smile growing until her mouth would stretch no more.

_Beautiful._

"Most everyone has a house. That seems a rather dull wish." The cat was still watching.

"I don't have a house," she countered in a tone suggesting she may have been offended by his words.

"A manor house?" he suggested.

"Oh no, nothing so grand as that. Big, but not so big I can't see to its care on my own."

"You're alone in this big house?"

"No it's filled with children. My children." Her voice sounded far away, as if she was in that house and being drowned out by her clamoring offspring. "Not mine alone, of course. My husband's as well. He's a merchant in town or of some honorable profession, and he's handsome of course."

A pang of jealousy of this imaginary man shot through him. "Of course," he agreed with a smile.

"Perhaps he's even blond." She was having fun now.

"Ahh," he said with a low chuckle. "I think you would be astonished at how much you can accomplish with flattery. What else would you have?"

"Nothing else. I must leave something for others to wish for."

She had not wished for him, he noticed. "Generous to the end," he said.

Eric looked to the patient room. Someone was stirring. He stood and offered her his arm. "Shall we walk the room?"

"Yes, lets."

He had a vague memory of the man who was awake. Regrettably, the expression on the man's face as they approached said very obviously he remembered Eric as well.

The man's eyes looked as if they might bulge out of his head and he was trying to push up with his hands in an effort to get into a position to try and flee. He opened his mouth, but only a sort of desperate scratching sound made its way out.

"He thirsts," Eric said. All emotion had drained from his voice. "Ale will serve him better than water, Susannah. Try looking for it in the cellar."

"Yes," she answered and placed a hand on the man's arm. "You're getting better," she whispered excitedly. "I'll hurry. I promise." She set out at a near run to find some ale.

"O! O! O!" the man called after her, the fingers of one hand shaking with the strain of trying to reach out to her.

"Shhhh," Eric hissed. He still couldn't clearly recall the man; only a brief blur of feeling as if he was being eviscerated and the feeling easing to something bearable as a man with this color hair went limp in his arms.

"O! O! O! O! NO!" He was forming words, but not loud enough to be heard past the bed he was in.

Eric leaned over the man to whisper to him. "You are safe. Susannah will find the ale and you will feel better. I am in earnest, my friend. Look at my eyes and see the sincerity there."

The man quieted and stopped trying to crawl away as Eric whispered to him. After a moment, Eric touched the man's forehead and slowly dragged his hand down the man's face. "That's good. Save your energy for when Susannah comes back with the ale."

Eric rose to a standing posture and in the midst of turning toward the kitchen to look for Susannah; his eyes found Rufus standing in the main sitting room doorway staring. There was no fear in Rufus' face, only curiosity … and recognition.

Rufus began to make his way into the room. "I don't believe we've met," he said with great dignity despite the odd pitch of his gait. "Rufus Melkin. This is my house."

"Eric Norseman. I accompanied Susannah from the castle to assist her with moving the patients." He offered a bow of his head, but did not break eye contact. "She would make for an excellent nurse. She was diligent and attentive throughout the night."

Rufus reached the bed next to the one where Eric was standing. "Is she like you?" Rufus asked.

Eric displayed no reaction. "Your meaning, Sir?"

"What you did to calm Daniel Potter. I've seen it done before, years ago in London. Can she do it?"

"She cannot."

Susannah came bounding into the room, breathing heavily from running up the cellar stairs, a cup of ale sloshing in her hand. "Master Melkin, did you see? He's awake now! Sir Eric said he could have ale." Rufus nodded and she handed the cup to Daniel Potter. He gulped it down in seconds.

Eric turned to Susannah and stared. After a moment she blushed and offered a crooked smile. Her hair was in disarray and the bruises on her face had turned a blackened violet in places. None of these things lessened her perfection in his eyes.

"Susannah, with your leave I would speak with Master Melkin on a personal medical matter, in a place which offers more privacy."

She unexpectedly raised a hand to her left cheek. "Of course," she said, turning away and walking up the other row of patient beds.

Eric looked to the doctor, who in turn was staring after Susannah. "Though they do not threaten her life, I am much grieved by the injuries you saw. It is my intention to see to her attackers this night, but first I would consult with you elsewhere."

Rufus looked across the room to the portrait of Anne. "She was my Summer Rose," he said before casting a tentative glance back at Eric.

"She was very beautiful, Doctor, but you will not be joining her yet."

"Pity," Rufus sighed, shifting his weight and taking the first step on the return trudge to the door. "My library will take the shortest long time. The entrance is through the door and to the left if you'd like to go on ahead and wait for me there."

To prevent Rufus wasting breath on talking, Eric kept up a steady chatter of compliments on his home and court gossip. As they passed through the entry hall door, Eric partially closed it to block them from the view of onlookers.

Eric slipped an arm around the doctor's waist and looked him in the eye. "If I may, Doctor?" Rufus nodded. Eric lifted him as if he were nothing and carried him into the library.

The books in the Melkin family collection held thousands of tales, perhaps tens of thousands. Mythological and doctrinal, fact and fantasy, there were books to edify both heart and mind. Yet no page in any of these books contained characters half so unique as the ones within these walls tonight.

"Should I ask about your strength?" Rufus asked as he was settled into a large leather covered chair.

"You could, but I would advise against it. What did you see in London and when?"

"1485, the last outbreak of what we call Sweating Sickness. The wards of Bart's overflowed into rows of sick and dead in the garden. Twice I saw a group of four young people, three men and a woman. I supposed them to be no more than twenty-five, with a morbid curiosity.

The second time I saw them I was making rounds. They appeared to be looking for someone. A family member I assumed. The woman seemed to recognize someone, a man. I thought they would come and ask the man be moved inside or inquire after his progress.

That was not to be. The woman leaned over the man an even from a distance I could see she was compelling unbroken eye contact with him. Then she moved her hand before his face, from forehead to chin," he looked Eric directly in the eye. "Just as you did with Daniel Potter tonight.

"An interesting story," Eric said. Based solely on his tone and inflection, he didn't sound interested in the least.

"It gets better."

Eric raised an eyebrow.

The man's name was Fergus McBride. I didn't know him by sight and he didn't know me. His boy was a groom where I stabled my horses. He did a good job and when his father was brought to Bart's, the boy pointed him out to me and begged me to look after him."

"And did you?" Eric asked casually as he examined his fingernails for unwanted dirt.

"Indeed." Rufus squirmed in his seat in search of a more comfortable position. It made him appear nervous. He wasn't. "Not ten minutes before the four arrived at his bedside, I stood in that very spot, listening to him rave about being attacked by a vengeful spirit; a woman with long dark hair and eyes black as pitch.

After the woman with the three companions left him, I returned to his side. He was as calm as a virgin at confession, and said he knew nothing of attacking spirits or the woman I described."

Rufus finally found a reasonably comfortable position for his legs and folded his hands in his lap. "These seventeen years I have often reflected on the woman and her friends."

"And what resolution have you reached after so long a contemplation?"

"I was hoping you might help me with that."

Eric was half leaning and half sitting on the edge of a large desk. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. "What would you have me tell you that you could not surmise for yourself after seventeen years study?"

"I have devoted my life to the scientific study of the living and the dead, Sir. I would know the truth. Why are we secreted, if not to allow privacy for the asking," Rufus paused for emphasis, "and answering of exigent questions?"

Eric looked up from his hands and met the doctor's eye. "Some truths are not meant to be known by all, and not all truths known to me are mine to impart to others. You may ask as you like and I will answer as I please."

"Am I correct in my belief you were one of the three? Will you allow me that much before you ask consideration of me?"

"I was in London at the time you mentioned, and I was known to often be in the company of a woman who could be described as you described the woman you saw. However, as you are aware, London is home to thousands of women who could be characterised thus."

"Did the four of you bring the Sweating Sickness to London?"

"We did not. We were and are, far from innocent, but neither the Sweating Sickness nor the death of your wife can be rightly laid at our door."

Rufus close his eyes and drew a deep breath.

"That was the answer you sought, was it not?" Eric asked softly.

"It was, Sir, and I thank you for it."

"Is your curiosity sufficiently quelled that we may move on?"

"Only one more thing. You did not bring Sweating Sickness to London, but in Ludlow,"

"I did not bring Sweating Sickness to any place."

"But what we have here is not Sweating Sickness, is it?"

"I am not a physician, Master Melkin. I would not wish to influence your diagnosis." Eric bowed his head, as if in deference.

With some difficulty, Rufus pulled himself up and leaned forward. "My diagnosis is and will remain, Sweating Sickness. What I am saying to you is, I know it to be the wrong diagnosis. The symptoms are close enough to be near indistinguishable, but there are differences. I am asking for your confirmation of my suspicion."

"You have now put this same question to me thrice. Be assured, my grasp of your language is exemplary. I have comprehended your meaning in each instance." Eric left, '_and I will not answer'_ hanging in the air between them.

It was clear Eric had no intention of confessing responsibility for current events, despite the suspicions of a crippled old doctor. Rufus sighed and said, "Ask what you will of me and I will grant it if I can."

Eric was swift and direct. He had much to do and little time to do it. "I want Susannah removed from Castle Ludlow and properly trained as a nurse."

"A simple enough request. Is there more?"

"I want a suitable match found for her; for a trained nurse. He should be a merchant at the least. I will see you have an appropriate dowry for her, as well as an annual sum for her upkeep. She would accept no such gift from me."

"It is not my intent to be indelicate, Sir, but,"

"She is yet a maid. You have my word. I have not known her. Nor has any other."

A realisation struck Rufus. "You're leaving. You're going to kill the men responsible for her beating, and then you're going to leave, aren't you?"

"I am," Eric replied without hesitation.

"May I ask how many will die?"

"I will kill two at the least, one highborn and one low. I expect you will learn the identity of the highborn very soon."

"Good God, you're going to try to kill the Prince."

"I never _try_. Unless he has left an heir in his bride, no part of Arthur will ever ascend the English throne."

"You would kill a King's heir for the sake of a scullery maid you haven't even had? What manner of man are you?"

"I am a man who takes what he wants without regret."

"And what you want is to kill a Prince?"

Eric laughed for the first time since entering the library. "Killing a Prince will not be a new experience for me. He will not die for his title. He will die for causing a beautiful girl to be beaten because she chipped a plate whilst scrubbing it as she toiled in his scullery. He will die because he is an obstacle to that which I want above all things … the happiness and security of my sweet Susannah."

XXXXXXX

With Fangtasia's dance lighting marking her path and music blaring from the sound system like so many trumpets heralding her arrival, she came, as beautiful as ever.

Pam had learned her name when she first came in. Eric repeated it in his mind to acclimate himself to the feel of it.

At last she was within arm's reach, even if she was on the arm of another for the moment. That could be rectified. She was bold. She was going to speak first. He could see it in her eyes. She would give him a run for his money this time. He couldn't be more thrilled.

"Hello, I'm,"

"Sookie Stackhouse. Well aren't you sweet."

XXXXXXXXXXX

author's notes:

Again, I must thank Northman Maille for her beta services, and even more for her encouragement and support.

All named members of the nobility, from Lady Francesca Whitcomb to HRH Arthur, Prince of Wales existed in history. It is unknown what actually killed Prince Arthur, but Sweating Sickness was among the suspects. The symptoms for Sweating Sickness are very similar to those of death by exsanguination, close enough that physicians of the time could have easily mistaken one for the other. A vampire could easily have gone on a killing spree during a Sweating Sickness outbreak and the victims would have almost certainly have gone unnoticed.

Rufus Melkin (in addition to all characters in the servant class) is a product of my imagination, however, it is true that William Wallace, in addition to many other high profile prisoners, was executed within site of St. Bart's Hospital. Many people claimed to hear ghosts of the executed in the area. The medical students were known to tell ghost stories to their dates in an attempt to "get close" to them.

Thanks for reading!


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